


Withheld

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Emotional Baggage, Guards, Guilt, Handcuffs, Inline with canon, M/M, Men Crying, Muzzles, No Plot/Plotless, Prison, Punishment, Self-Hatred, Sibling Incest, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-13 15:13:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12986751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "The muzzle is cold against Loki’s mouth." After returning Loki to Asgard, Thor claims a moment alone with his brother.





	Withheld

The muzzle is cold against Loki’s mouth.

It has been since Thor put it on him, with a darkness in his eyes and a set to his mouth that said he was determined to ignore anything Loki had to say, no matter how persuasively it was offered. There was no point in protesting, no point in making a plea to the other’s sympathy; and Loki hardly has any delusions of success now. He isn’t sure when he last had hope of truly winning -- long days past, he thinks, before New York, before the cage, before the blood. Maybe before the Chitauri at all, before that crippling influence had chilled his veins with more cold than his heritage can account for, before his vision washed to blue at the edges and his fingers cramped hard around the weight of a curved sceptre; before the fall, before the throne, before that horrible moment on Jotunheim of looking down at himself and seeing hated blood running through his veins. It has been a long, long time since Loki truly believed in his happy ending; and so he keeps his mouth shut, and seizes the minor, petty satisfaction of offering silence instead of the voice Thor is so afraid of.

The thing fits well enough, at least. It’s a perfect size to brace against Loki’s jaw and clasp against his lips like a palm pressing close against whatever words he might want to say; Loki wonders if that’s a function of some magic it has been infused with, to suit itself to its purpose here. Or perhaps it’s a consideration Thor made himself, when he went to request a form of restraint so specific to his own weakness to Loki’s manipulation; perhaps it was Thor who gave such precise sizing with the aid of long-lost memories. The thought shivers something like adrenaline down Loki’s spine, flickers something like warmth into his veins; so he crushes it out, and crushes it down, and tells himself it’s Odin’s cold, uncaring magic stifling his words rather than some strange form of consideration from the brother who turns out, at last, to have never been Loki’s at all.

It’s a short trip. Loki had thought of the Bifrost, at first, with nostalgia too strong to be overcome by the logic of memories so far gone as to be no more than hazy fragments around the painful blue of more recent thought. He had thought of the glow of Heimdahl’s gaze on him, had thought of glimpsing some part of his doomed future in those uncanny eyes before turning to make the long trek back to Asgard itself across the flickering light underfoot; but of course the Bifrost is gone, now, shattered by Thor’s hand and Loki’s intent, and when the blue glow of the Tesseract fades from Loki’s vision it’s with the looming walls of the palace around him, with no time to brace himself for his return except for what self-awareness he can drag from the effect of that blue seeping into his very soul. He’s home at last, returned to the planet and the city and the palace he had thought never to see again; and it is as cold as the metal gripping his mouth, as hollow as the space within his own chest. There is no home for him here, no more than there ever was in truth; all the warm associations that once made this a haven are stripped free now, chased loose by the cold Loki carries in his own veins, until the tall columns and the high-arched roof are nothing more than the grandeur of a cage. That thought rings true, settling into Loki’s thoughts with a bitter amusement that would be enough to make him smile, if the expression weren’t held back by the weight of the muzzle against his mouth. At least there’s  _some_  familiarity to be had in his less-than-triumphal return.

“Your Highness.” It’s a clear voice, a shout from across the span of a too-large space; Loki moves without thinking, his head turning in answer to that call before he can stop himself. But it’s singular, of course, not the plural title he shared some measure of as a child; and it’s Thor who’s turning to answer, shifting to look out at the guards striding purposefully towards the two of them. No one is even looking at Loki to notice the telltale instinct of his reaction; his jaw tightens against the grip of the muzzle, the metal catches to dig in hard against his skin, but he can’t speak, can’t do anything more than stand holding the far handle of the transporter and stare at the handful of armored men that fall in to offer brief, formal bows to Thor. “You have returned with the prisoner.”

“I have,” Thor says. Even now, even like this, his voice is resonant, grand and sweeping as if he’s speaking to an audience of thousands instead of a bare half-dozen guards. It makes him sound regal. It makes Loki’s stomach twist. “And the Tesseract.” He jerks hard at the other end of the transporter without even looking; against the sudden, unexpected pull Loki’s fingers slide free, giving up his hold on the point of connection before he even has a chance to react. Thor swings the weight of the transporter out to offer towards the guards arrayed before him. “To be placed in the treasure vaults for safekeeping.”

“Of course,” one of the guards says. Another reaches to claim the Tesseract and ducks into another bow before turning to stride away towards the promised vaults; Loki watches him go, just for the sake of having something to look at other than the sweep of red off broad shoulders and those attendant gazes fixed as entirely on Thor as if Loki didn’t even exist. The guard takes a turning and vanishes behind a column, and Loki raises his gaze again just as the head guard ducks his head towards Loki himself. “We have directions to escort the prisoner to the cells until the king has rendered judgment on him.”

 _For safekeeping_ , Loki wants to drawl.  _I always have been just another one of his dangerous treasures_. But the muzzle is still ice over his mouth, still freezing whatever bite he might want to offer to stoic silence; and so he is left to stand still, as absent his independence as his voice, as the guard speaking lifts his chin and squares his shoulders. “We thank you for your efforts in bringing the prisoner back to Asgard, Your Highness. We will relieve you of this burden from here.” The guard steps forward, past those crimson-weighted shoulders and with the power of his men falling into line behind him; his gaze looks right through Loki like he’s not there, or at least as if there’s no consciousness behind the other’s eyes to observe him. One of the other guards is flinching back, his eyes wide in the obvious youth of his face; he’s seeing the monster more than the treasure, Loki is sure, but there’s still no admission of empathy in his expression, no indication Loki is anything other than the murderous frost giant of the stories. Loki can feel the force of the other’s terror seething through his veins, chilling out the last of his hurt, the last of his guilt, cooling him to uncaring ice; and then, just as the lead guard reaches out for the length of chain connecting Loki’s hands:

“Wait,” Thor says, and he’s turning at speed, pivoting so hard on his heel that his red cloak flares around him in a wave to catch at his arm as he strides forward and seizes at the guard’s wrist. The guard pulls back at once, turning to give Thor his full attention; the motion drags Loki’s arms out in front of him in unthinking obedience to the jerk at the chain and nearly pulls him off his feet entirely, but the guard doesn’t so much as glance at him. A powerful artifact Loki may be, but he’s not one fragile enough to merit anyone’s especial concern.

“Your Highness,” the guard says, his expression fixed and his voice level. “You needn’t concern yourself with this. I believe your father the king intends a celebration banquet in your honor, it only awaits your arrival to begin.”

“The banquet can wait,” Thor says, and he lets the guard’s wrist go to close his hold on the chain between Loki’s hands himself. “I’d like a moment with my brother first.”

The guard blinks. Something very nearly surprise flickers over his face; were he facing anyone not royalty, Loki thinks it would be outright disbelief. “We have our orders to confine him to a cell,” he says, sounding far less sure of himself now than he did a moment ago. “Your Highness doesn’t need--”

“I do,” Thor says. He’s leaning in towards the guard, rocking forward on the balls of his feet so his shoulders shadow and loom over the other; Loki can see the guard’s eyes going wider at the pressure thus exerted on him, can see the shift of the other’s tongue as he licks the edge of anxiety away from his lips. Thor probably doesn’t even realize what he’s doing. “I require a minute alone with my brother. Then you can take him to face whatever Father wants to do with him.” There’s a pause, a moment while the guard stares wide-eyed up at Thor and Thor frowns down at the man. “Must I make this a command?”

The guard shakes his head hard. “No,” he says, his voice far weaker than it was before. He lets his hold on the chain between Loki’s wrists go and takes a step back, somewhat more hastily than would be dignified. “As you will.”

“Thank you,” Thor says, and twists his wrist to wrap the length of chain around his fingers as he lifts his other hand to point at the guards before him. “Wait here.” And he’s turning, shifting into motion so quickly Loki doesn’t have time to catch his balance before Thor’s hold on the chain between his wrists jerks his shoulders hard against their sockets. He hisses hard through his nose, stumbling as he tries to turn and move forward fast enough to keep from being dragged bodily across the hall; he wonders if perhaps that was Thor’s intent in any case, to pull Loki away to mete out whatever judgment he finds fit in himself before delivering the other to his father’s untender mercies.

Loki’s heart skips faster as he scrambles himself into better footing, as he falls into something like a pace with Thor’s ground-eating strides; maybe there will be a punch, the weight of childhood scuffles thudding against his eye or temple or nose with the full force of adult anger behind it. Maybe Thor intends to pay him back for the slide of the knife Loki stabbed him with atop that tower in New York; maybe he’ll pin Loki to one of these ornate columns and reach for the hammer hanging at his belt, the symbol of the nobility he understands on such an innate level and Loki has never been able to lay grasp to. Loki’s breathing skips faster, the adrenaline of fear and anticipation together lancing through him until he doesn’t know which runs foremost, doesn’t know which one it is he most is caught by; and then Thor turns around the curve of a column, and jerks hard against the chain wrapped around his hand to drag Loki in after him. Loki stumbles forward, his balance giving way at last to send him into the framework of a fall; he can see himself tipping in towards Thor’s shoulder, can see the impact against the other coming even as his feet give way from under him. He’s going to fall hard against the other, maybe hard enough to knock them both down if Thor isn’t braced for it; but Thor is turning too, twisting into the impact instead of away from it as he drops his hold on the chain between Loki’s wrists, and when Loki stumbles forward Thor’s arms close hard around his shoulders to catch him into a bruising-tight hug instead of the fall to the floor he expected.

“Loki,” Thor says, his voice rough and low and so near to Loki’s ear that the heat of it ruffles the strands of the other’s hair. He’s speaking fast, rushing over the words as if they are on a fast-draining timer. Loki supposes they are, at that. “You have done horrible things. The blood of many hundreds of innocents is on your hands, and it will fall to Father to deem what judgment he considers best recompense for your actions.” Thor’s hand is pressing into Loki’s hair; Loki can feel the separate tension in each finger clutching at the back of his head, holding his face in close against the red sweep of that cloak over Thor’s shoulder. He couldn’t pull away if he wanted to, even if he could find any measure of coherency from the ringing shock echoing blank white through the whole of his thoughts.

Thor takes a ragged breath. “This is not forgiveness,” he says. “After this I will hand you to the guards and I will let them take you to your cell, and to your punishment, and I will not try to stop them.” He makes the words sound like a promise, like a vow; Loki can feel the weight of them like a hammer pressing at his chest, as if Thor has indeed pinned him back to the column shadowing them from view with a swing of Mjolnir instead of the grip of his arms. “But before then.” Thor’s arms tighten; his grip is so intense that Loki stumbles a half-step closer, his balance giving way as Thor urges them in nearer, pressing flush against each other as if to occupy the same space, as if to become the same person for the span of this breath.

“Loki,” Thor says; and his voice is cracking, giving way like ice to summer heat, like frost dissolving before the glow of a sunrise. “My brother.” His head turns in to press close against Loki’s; Loki can feel the heat of Thor’s breathing against his cheek, just over the chill press of that muzzle still fixing him to forced silence. “I have spent these long months mourning your loss. To find you alive once more is a gift I thought never to be granted.” Thor’s arm slides against Loki’s back, curling in to fit at the dip of the other’s spine and hold him close; Thor’s fingers draw down by an inch to stroke through the fall of Loki’s hair. “I have missed you more than words can say.”

Loki stares at the pattern of red across Thor’s shoulder, at the shine of the armor that overlays his chest. There’s nothing else he can do; he can no more raise his arms to embrace Thor in return than he can give voice to a echoed reply. His voice is stifled, his hands are bound; and inside the space of his mind, coherency is stripped away by shock, by the bright, brittle agony that always comes with Thor’s words, and Thor’s touch, and Thor’s affection. It is this that has so haunted Loki’s memories, that has brought him gasping awake from dreams so alluring as to turn reality to a waking nightmare; it’s to run from this that he let his grip go slack on that staff in Thor’s grip, it’s to battle this that he closed his left-empty hands around the hilt of that sceptre with the blue light to suit the blood in his veins. But he can’t escape from this, can’t break free of Thor’s hold any more than he will ever be able to forget the warmth of sincerity on those words, the sound of affection cracking open on the fault lines of truth; and Loki shuts his eyes, and he lets himself surrender for a moment, for a breath. Thor’s hold is strong around him, Thor’s breathing is warm at his hair; when Thor turns his head in to press the closer to Loki’s cheek Loki can feel the contact of the other’s lips on him as if a blow, as if lightning grounding out to still the thunder of his heart in his chest. He can’t offer his mouth, can no more give the contact of a kiss than he can spill words enough to match what Thor always so unthinkingly gives up to him; so he stays still instead, his head bowed and his hands empty while Thor gasps the start of what might be tears against his cheek, as if the taste of Loki’s skin is choking him where he stands. For a moment their cheeks are pressed close together: Thor’s stubble dragging against Loki’s cheekbone, Loki’s hair catching at Thor’s nose, warmth and cool bleeding into each other as fast as contact. For a moment Thor is turning, for a breath his mouth is pressing hard against Loki’s skin in a brief, hard kiss; and then he’s pulling away, and he’s pulling back, and Loki ducks his head to hide in the shadow of his hair as Thor steps back and away from him.

“I will always love you, Loki.” Thor’s hand slides down through Loki’s hair to clasp close against the back of the other’s neck, to press skin-to-skin for a brief moment of electricity. “My brother.” His fingers tighten, his grip bracing against that connection; and then his hold eases, his hand falls away, and Loki can feel the loss as if of all the warmth in the air as Thor steps back and away. “Goodbye.” And he turns, and he strides away, back out into the light as he leaves Loki behind him in the shadow of the column. There’s a shout as he summons the guards, as he directs them to lay claim to the prisoner Loki has become again in Thor’s leaving; but Loki’s not listening to the words, not paying attention to what meaningless orders are being passed from one to the next. He’s keeping his head bowed and his jaw clenched, tasting the tang of frigid metal at his lips instead of the farewell he might give voice to, if he had the freedom of it, instead of the love that is all he has to offer, that will never be enough to balance the mistakes he has made.

The guards don’t look at Loki’s face as they lay claim to his chains, as they drag to urge him roughly away through the halls and down towards the cells beneath the palace floors; but Loki is rather more grateful to that than otherwise. Under the circumstances, he’d prefer to keep the evidence of his tears as locked away as his voice.


End file.
